


Dawn

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Perpetual Nonesense [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ancient Egypt, Drama, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Victorian, the road to hell is paved with good intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ca. 1858, London. Lord Lionel Nevermoor returns from the Crimean war, alone and even more despirited than before, unable to move past his grief for his beloved and her continued absence. Why can he not find her? Why has she not returned? Two of his oldest and dearest friends struggle with those very same questions and endevour to help him find her once more, despite the disasterous results their aid has wrought all of them in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn

_“He stepped down, avoiding any long look at her as one avoids long looks at the sun, but seeing her as one sees the sun, without looking.”_  
\- Leo Tolstoy

_“The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes.”_  
\- Johnny Cash (after Ewan MacColl)

 

She had not seen him in over a decade – there had been no need. But now that there was, it had not been easy to find him. Not that he was hiding – not from her, at any rate – but logic and lot numbering appeared to happen in other places than the East End and it was in the East End that her old friend resided. In the district of Whitechapel, to be exact.

Night had fallen by the time she had found the disreputable street known as Buck's Row. Foul, pea soup smog choked the narrow, dim lit cobble road and the pavement was barely three feet across from derelict house front to sludge clogged gutter. The homes she passed were shabby, dirty little affairs that huddled together like frightened children before the imperious brickwork of the Brown & Eagle warehouses across the street. The storehouses' tall walls unkindly accentuated Buck Row's narrow character and their vast shadows plunged the already unpleasant street into an even deeper gloom.

Despite the hour, Buck's Row was far from deserted. A rowdy man with the gait of the thoroughly drunk stumbled down the cobbled street while a slovenly woman swept the narrow pavement in front of her dilapidated home. Further along two unkempt hostlers stood smoking against the fence of Brown's Stable Yard. And although she had dressed in her plainest garments, the resident paupers glanced up as she passed. She paid them no heed.

Buck's Row split into several subservient roads that were little more than glorified alleyways. She gave the large windowed front of Harrison, Barber & Co's a wide breadth as she turned onto Winthrop Street, knowing well that despite it's fancy name it was nothing but a knacker's yard. It took her some time to find her old friend's residence.

The address led her to a narrow, decayed house crammed between a shady pawnshop and a more formidable home at the dead end turn of the seedy street. The house was crumbling and boarded up, apparently abandoned decades ago. She smiled as she brushed her hand across the heavy duty chain holding the sagging front door closed. Appearances could be deceiving. The moment her fingertips touched the rusted metal a faint, prismatic shimmer slid across the door like light refracting off water.

\+ Isetnofret? +

_Em hotep_ ,* (greeting, lit. 'In Peace.') _Akhenamun_. She thought in reply as her smile deepened at hearing her friend's voice whisper within her mind after all these years.

\+ Demi enek reshut tjeheh.* (reply, lit. 'May peace and delight cling to you.') Please, come in. +

She closed her eyes for a moment, quieting her thoughts and emptying her mind of everything but his invitation to enter. She shaped the thought into prominence and resolutely stepped forward and passed through the door. When she opened her eyes on the other side she stood in a narrow, darkened hallway in front of a rickety staircase whose runner had known better years. She lifted the front of her skirts as she climbed the stair, her heels whispering across the tattered carpet. The doors along the small landing were all boarded up, safe for the one at the end. That one, unbarred door held a paned window. Yet no light shone through the glass. The bedsit beyond was twilit, it's interior shrouded in shadows.

"Ah, I apologise," a man remarked as she entered, his tone thick with a soft, eastern accent. A moment later a gas lamp flared to life beside her. Safe for the walls, which were lined with tall bookcases, the bedsit was sparsely furnished. "Few visit me these days."

"It is I who should apologise, Akhenamun," she returned as she picked up the gas lamp and walked over to sit down beside her friend on the old divan sequestered in the far corner of the small room. "I should have come by on occasion."

"Call me Edgar, please," he returned with a smile as he turned to face her, though his gaze never met hers. "Tell me, by what name do you go these days, meryt*-Isetnofret?” (endearment, lit. 'Beloved-')

"Lillian," she replied as she took in her old friend's appearance. He hadn't changed in the slightest and aged even less. The impression of kohl tattooed around his almond eyes looked as fresh as the day it had been inked, his ochre brown skin smooth and free of blemishes across his high cheekbones and narrow nose. Slight creases at the corners of his brown eyes and full lips, as well as hints of grey in his jet black scalp-lock, were his only concessions to age. His single breasted waistcoat and pressed trousers were of a plain snit and fashioned of unimaginative tweed, the sleeves of his cream dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. Gold, dulled and discoloured with great age, adorned his bare wrists and neck, ears and hair.

"Lillian," Edgar repeated as if tasting the word, before nodding approvingly. "From _lilium,_ the lily; a beautiful name. Em heset net Nefertem* (lit. 'To be in favour with Nefertem')."

Lillian inclined her head briefly at the compliment, but then cut to the chase. "Ramesses finally send word."

Edgar's pencilled eyebrows rose in surprise at both her words and her abruptness, though his gaze remained fixed on a point behind her. "He has tired of brawling around the Black Sea then?" he inquired, his tone light and tinged with amusement.

"The recent mishap and deprivation that followed appear to have put a sour taste to his love of war making," Lillian agreed. "He must have left shortly after, for he arrived at Euston station this morning."

"In one piece, I gather from your tone?" Edgar asked, concern edging into his voice regardless.

"Yes, they both came out of the disastrous charge unscathed," Lillian confirmed.

"Both?" Edgar inquired, a frown creasing his brow. "Surely Alistair did not go with?"

"Oh no, no, the poor dear would sooner die than join a war voluntarily," Lillian chuckled, although there was sadness to her smile. "No, I meant Coşkun."

"Ah, but of course," Edgar nodded, realising his mistake as a smile played around his lips once more. "He would have turned the underworld upside down if the horse had been hurt."

"It is remarkably resilient," Lillian agreed with a thoughtful frown.

"I do not think that has anything to do with the stallion," Edgar replied with a chuckle.

"Perhaps." A hint of rarely seen annoyance creased through Lillian's frown at that. "He has not bred the stallion in millennia."

"He has not bred it, or he has not let you breed it to your bloodstock?" Edgar teased before returning to a more serious tone. "Perhaps it's qualities are not hereditary and he is merely sparing you the disappointment."

"Even he does not command the mental sciences so entirely as to be able to maintain such a feat indefinitely," Lillian shook her head. "And yet, the horse's multifarious talents and knack for surviving trouble are too uncanny to be wholly natural."

"Admirable qualities in a war horse, certainly," Edgar remarked. "But I imagine talk of bloodstock is not why you are here?"

Lillian sighed. She had been contemplating how to formulate her request.

"You could just ask?" Edgar smiled. "I am blind, Lillian, not numb. You are worried."

"I had hoped Ramesses' time abroad would bring him peace; that he would have found her by now," Lillian admitted as she gave in to her worries and wrung her hands. "But he has not, Edgar, he has not found her and his thoughts have grown bitter and distant with grief. I can barely feel his presence."

"That is disheartening news," Edgar replied as he put a gentle hand to her shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "But he is strong, he will persevere. He ever does."

"But at what cost?" Lillian returned as she embraced Edgar. "He has already changed so much from when I first knew him. I do not wish to lose him further."

"Change is inevitable, it need not be our enemy," Edgar countered as he returned her embrace, soothingly rubbing her back. They sat quietly for a long time, each to their own thoughts, before Lillian spoke once more.

"Can you see her?" she asked tentatively.

"See her?" Edgar echoed. It took him a moment before he realised what it was that she requested of him. "No, Lillian. I cannot do that, I must not provoke fate. Sight comes to me when it will."

"It need not be more than a glimpse," Lillian entreated.

"Lillian..." Edgar started as he reached up to brush her cheek, tracing the contours of the visage he could no longer see.

"It will not take much, merely a hint in which direction we might look," Lillian added. Her voice was unsteady, thick with emotion. He could no longer see her face, but he knew the expression that laid across it: the grief shimmering in her green eyes, the tears streaking down her olive cheeks, the downward arch of her delicate lips, the pained frown across her smooth brow. He remembered it from the last time she had made this very same request, now so long ago. He remembered, because it had been the last thing he had ever seen.

They had all mourned Amun-her-Khepeshef's violent and pointless death, but Nefertari had been unable to digest the loss of her oldest and most adored son. Nefertari... 'The one for whom the sun rises', Ramesses had always called her; ever only the sweetest things had he named the light of his life, the centre of his universe. And from the day the Nile bore her to the afterlife, the sun had risen no more before Ramesses eyes. Isetnofret had come to Akhenamun, as she had now, beseeching he find the one who ruled the heart of her beloved Pharaoh, to divine the eternal maiden's next separation from Osiris' side.

"No, Lillian, we cannot, we _must_ not!" Edgar repeated, though it pained him to deny her. Some prices were not worth paying; and his mortal sight had been the least of it. "We must not upset the order of things."

"The order of things is that she returns!" Lillian exclaimed as she looked up into his sightless eyes.

"We do not know that!" Edgar countered, grasping her by the shoulders. "Lillian, we have no idea how she returns to his side or why she returns in the body that she does!"

"Please, Akhenamun, I cannot bear to stand by as he succumbs to his grief," Lillian pleaded as she tried to contain her tears.

"Isetnofret..." Edgar shook his head as he took her face in his hands, his expression one of moral anguish. She and Ramesses were close to his heart, siblings in all but blood. Yet his actions in the past on her behalf had caused an irreparable rift between his two friends, and he had no wish to chance rending it open further. "Do you not remember what happened last time?"

Lillian closed her eyes. How could she ever forget? She had brought sacrifices to the temple for days and prayed through the nights, beseeching Osiris to part from the one who had been Nefertari. On the eight day, Osiris had honoured her request and granted Akhenamun a vision; a sight of the Lord of Silence as he rose from the Nile and led a young woman across its sacred waters. A maiden with a white lotus in her hair who sat down upon the Nile's imposing shore where Nefertari's mortal remains had last touched the sands of Egypt.

As soon as Akhenamun had told her of his vision, she had gone to her beloved Pharaoh and told him of Nefertari's return. She had taken Ramesses' hand and they had immediately gone to the water's edge. And there they saw her, standing ankle-deep in the Nile. She had turned to them as they approached and the sun had risen once more behind the eyes of Bintanath, their beloved daughter, a smile upon her lips and a white lotus in her hair.

"Please, Akhu. I beg you. He is hurting so," Lillian implored softly as she took his hand in both her own. "We are all alone now, all alone amid a world of strangers. No harm to any of us can be done."

There was truth to her words. They had no familial ties now, not even friends beyond each other. And by whatever craft the young woman returned to Ramesses side, she had never returned in one of them. "Very well," Edgar conceded with a sigh. He retrieved his hands from Lillian's gentle grasp and sat back, loosening his shoulders before crossing his legs beneath him. Lillian leaned back in her seat, her hands in her lap as she looked on quietly.

For a while, nothing appeared to happen. Until reality flickered, like the blink of an eye that left the world ever so slightly out of place. Faster and faster the flickers came, their intervals growing shorter as their effects grew more profound: furniture shifted, decayed, renewed, colours faded and intensified as dust appeared and disappeared in wild and unnatural patterns.

Edgar sat cross-legged amid the visual vortex, his hands in front of him, his fingers curled into lose fists with the palms up. His chin rested upon his chest as he swayed in time with a primordial tune only he could hear. His appearance shifted; lines creased into his handsome features and grey shot through his kohl black hair as his true age caught up with him. Old, jagged scars appeared across his visage where eyes had never been, their crude stitchings as ancient as the leathery skin they held together. And once revealed, his features no longer changed, terrifyingly permanent amid the chaos.

He stretched his hands to the sky and opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. As his fingers unfurled an eye opened within each palm and the swirling vortex came to a sudden, breathless halt. Edgar moved his hands quiet and fluid as a mummer in the midst of play. The eyes were pale and blue and unblinking as they gazed across the frozen chaos of creation. Searching. Seeing. Quiet as the grave.

Every so often Edgar undulated his fingers as if flipping through the pages of a book that did not exist. And every time he did reality abruptly hurled itself onward, crashing into convulsing waves of chaos around him whenever he paged with both hands independently of one another. Reality spasmed at the innocuous gesture, only to stop short the moment his fingers halted.

"Akhu!" Lillian exclaimed when Edgar suddenly collapsed. Reality surged back into place with the physical force of an implosion. Lillian cried out at the sudden pressure, pressing her hands to her ears as tears shot into her eyes. She stumbled as she made her way to her fallen friend.

The ancient scars had torn themselves further across Edgar's features, their stitchings taut and fraying his withered flesh. His palms bled, the closed eyes weeping crimson tears.

"Isetnofret..." Edgar croaked as she gathered him into her arms, supporting his head.

"I am sorry," Lillian cried as she gently stroke the side of his face, tears of pain and regret spilling from her eyes. "I am so sorry."

Edgar shook his head, the movement barely noticeable. There was a weary smile upon his shrivelled, blood-flecked lips. "I have... seen her. She is... _here."_

"Here? Here in London?" Lillian asked quietly. Could it be?

Edgar nodded, slowly, straining to remain conscious in the face of crippling exhaustion. "You must go to..." his voice broke and left him, and did not return save for a hoarse croak. He reached a trembling hand to her temple instead and the moment his fingertips brushed her skin she saw what he had seen.

Brilliant light blinded her eyes, reflecting off crystal chandeliers and marbled floors. The babble of a crowd assaulted her senses. The music of an orchestra, playing familiar tunes. Couples danced while one young woman stood alone. She wore an evening gown of palest blue and embellished with pearls as fair as her porcelain skin. Dark hair framed soft features and a shy, gentle smile.

Lillian gasped and coughed as if coming up for air the moment he removed his touch. His hand fell limply to his side.

\+ Find her... + His mental voice was faint, all but a whisper within her thoughts.

_Akhu, you are-_

\+ Fine. I... will be fine. Go. + He managed as his appearance flickered and shifted, the illusion of his younger, fairer self slowly returning. + Aw... ibek*. + (farewell, lit. 'May his heart rejoice.')

Lillian could feel his mind flicker into unconsciousness as his unseeing eyes rolled up in their sockets. At least, his form remained stable. She sighed, smoothing his dark hair out of his face. + Due netjer en ek*. + (farewell, lit. 'Thank god for you.') She send as she kissed his forehead, though she knew he no longer heard. She reached for a pillow and gently put it under his head before carefully rising.

She straightened her crumpled garments, unsteady upon her feet. It was only then that she noticed the delicate ice crystals that had flowered across the tattered carpet, glittering in the darkness. The gas lamp laid extinguished upon the floor. An elegant envelope leaned against it, rimmed in frost and yet unmarked by it. When she picked it up its coruscating, icy edging suddenly melted and the water ran from the envelope like tears. A chill crawled up her spine as she turned it around and broke the wax seal. There was a card within, addressed to her in Alistair's typical crow-footed joint script. It was an invitation to a charity ball tomorrow night.

* * *

Lillian consulted the pocket watch secreted among the skirts of her elegant, emerald evening gown as she closed the door of her stately home behind her. It was almost time. She had mentally contacted Ramesses this morning, proposing they attend the charity ball together – after all, it was hardly proper if she went unaccompanied! She had been mindful of keeping her thoughts carefully plain and her memories of the previous night well out of sight. She had suggested they might find his beloved at the ball, for surely everyone who was anyone would attend. If Nefertari had been reborn to genteel parents, she would certainly be there. And, so Lillian had continued, if she had not then at the very least they would be able to pick up a charity and so find reason to visit the less seemly parts of London in search of her without rousing suspicion.

Lillian hoped she had not been completely unsubtle, for it had been surprisingly easy to convince him to join her. And, more worryingly, he had not raised a single question as to why she thought they might run into his beloved there. She shook the milling thoughts as she put her pocket watch away while she descended the porch steps and walked down her garden path. She closed her eyes as she walked, took a deep breath, and vanished mid-stride.

She gasped for air when she reappeared in the shadowed corner of an alleyway off of Grosvenor's Square, her hand flat to her corseted waist. A whole lot of things were dreadfully uncomfortable while wearing a corset, but she was absolutely certain performing translocation was the worst. She steadied herself and tried to take as deep breaths as her cinched in lungs allowed, slowly calming herself despite the tightness of chest.

When she was no longer short of breath and in control of her humours once more she straightened her sparkling skirts and strode out onto the beautiful garden square, reticule in hand. She made her way across Grosvenor's square to the stately city home sprawling across one of its corners. She cautiously walked across the gravel path, her heels sinking uncomfortably between the stones.

Lillian stared at the lacquered front door for a long moment. It's gilded knocker was carved into the likeness of an eagle staring imperiously down its beak. Its shrewd gaze suddenly felt sapient, judgemental. She averted her eyes. Why had he not yet come to open the door? He was here. She could feel his presence nearby. Surely, he had noticed her too?

She waited a minute longer, before she reluctantly grabbed the ring in the eagle's beak and knocked. A moment later, footsteps echoed beyond the door. But when it opened, it was not her friend who appeared from behind the oaken door.

"Lady Nevermoor, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Harris," Lillian greeted her friend's valet without missing a beat. Harris seemed surprised at her appearance – always a bad sign.

"Please, enter," Mr. Harris replied swiftly as he held the door open to her. "I shall inform my Lord straight away."

Mr. Harris closed the door behind her and accepted her cloak, after which he hurried up the two sets of stairs to the second floor and down the corridor to where his Lordship stood in front of the bay window of a small drawing room, adjacent to an unoccupied second bedroom. "Apologies, my Lord," Harris said as he entered, briefly knocking the door post to announce his presence. "Lady Nevermoor awaits you in the voyeur."

"I have changed my mind, I am not going," Lord Lionel Nevermoor retorted plainly and without averting his gaze, his hands clasped behind his back. "Tell her to leave."

"My Lord-," Harris started, but stopped himself. "As you say."

Lord Nevermoor stared listlessly across Grosvenor's square. Far beyond the elegant façades and neat rooftops of his neighbours' homes, further than most could see, he saw the mean outlines of tall fabric chimneys belching vicious clouds into the smudgy sky. Smog hung thickly over London. It would not be long or Grosvenor's square too would be stained pea soup green. How different had the view from this little window become over the past century. At least his beloved's vision would not be as keen as his; the sight beyond the small, hand-crafted panes would be lovely to her yet.

"I wanted these to be hers," he mused when Lillian entered the small drawing room, as he had known she would. It took more than a diligent manservant to deter her from a cause. A melancholic smile briefly surfaced across his saturnine features. It had been a while since he had been such a cause.

"I remember," Lillian returned kindly when she stood by his side. "I was there when you first came to view this location, remember?"

He nodded. He hadn't forgotten, but he had bought the house so long ago... and the small rooms had remained empty. They were furnished, but only sparsely. He had wished her to decorate it herself, to shape it as she saw fit and make it her home. He sighed and cast his gaze down, resting on the windowsill. Dust laid across it like a mottled grey blanket. There was dust everywhere in the little rooms, their footsteps the only disturbance in many a year.

“Staying here will not bring her back,” Lillian said softly as she put a gentle hand on his arm.

His gaze flicked past her, across the dainty furniture and sweet paintings. They struck him as oddly artificial now, like a doll house that had never been played with. She had never set foot in the home he had created for her. And now he was not sure if she ever would. “She is not out there,” he replied, his tone morose and his expression worse as he tugged his arm from her grasp and returned his gaze to the window and the foul, uncaring world beyond. “I have searched everywhere.”

"It has been over a decade since you were home, she may have returned here in your absence," Lillian encouraged carefully. It was imperative that he join her to the charity ball, for there might not be another chance. “There's hope yet that she came back among our genteel friends.”

“Hope is the worst of all evils,” he scowled at the mention of that particular mirage. “For it does naught but prolong the torment of man.”

“You speak as if you have lost faith,” Lillian returned sadly.

“I never had faith,” he countered curtly, his scowl deepening.

“But you had hope, you _still_ have hope,” Lillian pressed on as she took his hand once more, willing him to look at her. “Hope is but the dream of a waking man. And a man cannot be faulted for dreaming at day as he does at night.”

He did not reply, did not respond to her touch either.

“We _will_ find her,” she whispered, her voice suddenly thick with grief as she reached for his face and turned his gaze to her. “It pains me to see you so, Ramesses.”

He flinched when she used that ancient name. She could feel it; the faintest twitch of his thoughts as in his hand. Old hurt surfaced in his brown eyes and he tore his gaze away from hers. “Don't,” he all but spat.

“We may not know where the shore lies today,” Lillian pressed on as she grasped his hand more firmly. “But there is no one but us now, and that shore must lie somewhere. It may lay closer than you think.”

He stared out through the paned window at the industrialised city beyond, glaring at it as if it's woeful deterioration was a deliberate attempt to offend him. A watery ray of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds just then and bathed Grosvenor's square in a loveliness no longer self-evident.

His shoulders sagged as he sighed and for a moment he looked his age as he laced his fingers through hers.

She glanced sideways at him, catching his weary gaze with an encouraging smile.

He squeezed her hand lightly, a weak smile flitting across his worn features. “I suppose,” he admitted softly. “The Thames is a river too.”

* * *

"It would be a great honour, Lord Stokes," Marietta Silverglade all but beamed as Lord Francis Stokes pressed a fleeting kiss to her gloved fingertips.

"It is I who is honoured, _ma cherie_ ," the willowy Lord Stokes countered kindly before taking his leave.

Lord Stokes had barely turned his back or Marietta quickly produced the hand-held, metal fan looped at the bodice slip of her elegant blue evening gown and penned his name into the little chart it unfolded into. Her dance card was full now and everyone who was anyone was in it! She tried her best to contain a particularly pleased smile. There were so many influential guests tonight – from the famous but slightly eccentric naturalist and geologist Mr. Darwin to the great art critic and philanthropist Mr. Ruskin. She fanned herself with the card. Even Her Majesty the Queen's own secretary wished to dance with her! Lord Stokes was so very handsome. She smiled indulgently behind the fan, proud of herself.

Naturally, over a third of the little blank lines upon the elaborately folded dance card were occupied with her beloved's name. He had proposed to her this very morning! She still could not quite believe it. Oh, how delightful she felt whenever she thought of it. She smiled when she caught sight of him across the dance floor. He appeared to be deep in conversation with Mr. Darwin. He was twisting a strand of his short, ash brown hair around his finger; a little quirk he was wont to when thoughtful.

It was just then that Mr. Hayward announced the arrival of more guests. Marietta didn't quite catch their names and frowned slightly at the lateness of their arrival. A man and woman had entered, arms joined as the servants accepted their coat and cape. He seemed rather tall, his imposing Hussar dress uniform not quite vivid enough to distract from his swarthy complexion or his improperly long hair, no matter how neatly bound it was. The lady appeared almost doll-like beside him and equally foreign in appearance with her prettily slanted eyes and high cheekbones, despite her emerald gown being the absolute height of fashion.

"Oooh! They _have_ come!" Lady Alison Benit piped up beside Marietta as she grasped the younger woman's arm in excitement. Marietta had not noticed the infamous gossip's approach; she did not much like the unscrupulous woman. “If anyone had said the Nevermoors would show up,” Lady Benit continued as if it were front page news. “I would have _never_ believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes!”

Marietta barely heard her as her gaze lingered on the newly arrived lord and lady. She only vaguely recalled the name 'Nevermoor'. Perhaps he was one of her fiancé's business partners? She could not quite keep her eyes from him. He was very handsome, if a little... foreign. She smiled guiltily at her thoughts. In a good, mildly exotic way. She wondered what his voice sounded like, what colour his eyes were. It was in that very moment that he looked up and straight at her. And time ground to a halt.

An inexplicable sense of recognition settled across her mind as dissembled impressions tugged at her senses. The lure of the horizon. The thrill of adventure. Laughter under clear blue skies and sweet summer kisses. His voice was powerful but not unkind, stern but not without compassion. His eyes were a deep brown, capable of hardening to stone and melting as chocolate in the span of a heartbeat. Faster and faster the sensations came. And they left an indubitable longing in their wake.

“Did you hear Lord Nevermoor has only just returned from the Crimean?” Lady Benit continued unperturbed at a volume that made the act of whispering pointless. “The cavalry was led into a disastrous charge, hundreds died! Horses and all! Such a terrible waste. I heard it said he had something to do with the fiasco. He's a lieutenant after all!”

“I was not aware Lord Nevermoor had married...” Marietta muttered absently when he finally broke his gaze away from hers and led the woman at his arm onto the dance floor. Her eyes remained glued to his broad back. A misplaced sense of sudden, utter dislike towards the unknown lady reared in the pit of Marietta's stomach like a poisonous snake. Who was she? What right had she to be at his side?

“What? Married?” Lady Benit all but laughed behind her hand.

Marietta flinched. She had not meant to wonder that out loud.

“Oh no, mercy me,” Lady Benit chuckled as she patted Marietta's arm, clearly amused by the younger woman's shift in demeanour. She was smitten, she could tell. Ah, so many of the fanciful dears were these days, mooning over him despite the foreign sludge clotting the blood running through his wealthy veins. “There would be many a tear soaked handkerchief if he had.”

“Oh...” Marietta managed vaguely as she leaned sideways, attempting to glimpse him through the crowd.

“The lady accompanying him is not his wife, but his sister. Although, I suppose you never do know with those foreign types,” Lady Benit continued sagely. “But take it from me, my dear girl: you do not wish to mingle.”

"I think that is quite enough of that," Marietta snapped as she shed the woman's touch abruptly. How dare she speak ill of him? She moved away, leaving a confused and mildly scandalised lady Benit behind, who promptly moved to her nearby sycophants.

Throughout the evening, Marietta's gaze found excuses to glance in the lord's direction. Ever from a far, of course, for she had never met Lord Nevermoor and it would be highly inappropriate to presume he would want for her company. Every so often, he would look up. As if he knew she were watching. She would quickly avert her gaze, studying her dance card with the intensity of reading a deeply engrossing book.

When Marietta's eyes returned from their so many-eth wandering beyond her dance partner's shoulder, she was confronted with his mildly disapproving gaze, the blue of his kind eyes cooling noticeably. And although not unpleasant per say, his already detached approach to formal dancing grew infinitesimally more distant still. She cast her eyes down and blushed lightly in shame. She was embarrassed, as she knew she well should be, but as they whirled around the ballroom floor her gaze had already wandered beyond the polished wood once more. A little frown of disappointment creased her fair brow when she didn't see the lord. Where had he gone? When the dance ended her partner expertly stepped them out of it in the same corner as his wife and her dance partner had wound up.

"Mrs. Ruskin," Lord Stokes said as he bowed and handed the lady back to her husband. He then glanced up at the young woman Mr. Ruskin relinquished to him. "Miss Silverglade."

"Lord Stokes," Marietta returned pleasantly as she accepted his arm and walked a short distance with him. It would be a few minutes until the next dance.

Across the ballroom, Lillian surreptitiously leaned closer to her friend. "And who are you sneaking peeks at?" she inquired in all but a whisper. She chuckled softly when he flinched.

"No one," Lionel returned curtly, and a tad too swiftly as he pointedly looked in a different direction. A frown furrowed his brow. Could it be? After all this time? She kept glancing at him, too.

"That certainly sounds like someone," Lillian teased lightly. She could sense he guarded his thoughts. In fact, he had done so from the moment they had entered. She smiled and hoped it meant he had found her.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Lionel remarked grumpily, a scowl creasing his handsome features as he moodily studied the delicate trimming of his gloves.

Lillian's smile broadened. He _had_ found her. "Who is it?" she pressed lightly, her demeanour that of a nosey sister as her gaze flicked across the ballroom. "You can tell me, you know."

Lionel appeared of no mind to indulge her. His gaze wandered across the fancy crowd until it rested upon the young woman once more. Her heart-shaped features were soft and fair, framed by hair the colour of chestnuts. She looked so lovely in her silk gown, blue as the sky and set with delicate lace and shimmering glass beads that coruscated like water when they caught the light. He could almost hear the rustle of her skirts, the soft tinkle of its decorations when she moved just so. She'd had company for every dance so far. However, none of her partners were likely to be her husband – or her lover, for that matter. She was not of genteel blood and if she had been with one of the wealthies strutting about this place he would have known by now. She had shared a fair amount of dances with Alistair, but then he had always had a way with women. Lionel's scowl creased deeper in displeasure. She belonged with him.

"Is it the lovely young lady walking with Lord Stokes?" Lillian guessed, entirely accurately.

“Yes,” Lionel conceded tersely. There was no use trying to deny it. “But I cannot go to her,” he continued irritably. “I do not know her and she is unattended – she is hardly Lord Stokes' type.” How he detested the social conventions of this era. He would have ignored the idiotic obstacle course and crashed right on through if they had not been in the middle of a ballroom with the entirety of upstanding London looking over his shoulder. He would not chance to ruin her fragile reputation. The 'genteel' company's obnoxious, toxic thoughts and whispers stuck to the back of his mind like vile phlegm; a perpetual nuisances he'd bend reality out of shape to spare her ears of.

"But I can," Lillian smiled indulgently as she took Lionel his arm. "And you are my brother, who is gallantly accompanying me."

“I forget how crafty you can be,” Lionel replied as he obliged, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

Lillian chuckled and patted his hand in turn. "I will presume you meant that as a compliment."

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Naturally."

Lillian stifled her own amusement before tugging him gently, indicating for him to lead them by a circumvent route across the ballroom, stopping here and there to make conversation. Until they arrived at the young lady. Entirely by coincidence.

"Oh, that is absolutely the loveliest dress I have ever seen!" Lillian exclaimed as she moved towards the young woman, convincingly dragging Lionel along by his arm. "Dear, pray tell me, is it a Worth? The detailing is magnificent and the colour of the silk, so becoming of you!"

"Thank you, my lady," Marietta returned, blushing a distinct shade of pink at the sudden attention from such a noteworthy lady. She glanced up surreptitiously. He was even more handsome from up close.

"Lionel, is it not amazing?" Lillian continued cheerfully. "Oh, I absolutely must have such a one too."

"You will, dear," Lionel returned absently, his gaze searching for the young woman's eyes. The moment she peeked up at him, the sun rose behind her green eyes. A smile creased his features. It was _her._ "Would you honour me with a dance?" he inquired the moment the small orchestra started to play once more.

Lord Stokes opened his mouth to reply, raising his hand in protest even, but the imposing Hussar officer pointedly stepped in front of him, holding the young woman's rapt attention as he bowed and offered his gloved hand to her.

"I would be delighted to," she replied to Lord Stokes' astonishment, accepting the eccentric gentleman's hand and joining him on the dance floor.

"Oh dear," Lillian exclaimed gently, more to draw Lord Stokes' attention away from the pair than anything else.

Reminded of her presence, Francis smiled as he turned to her. “It would seem we have both been abandoned,” he remarked with a vague smile.

“Not for the first time either,” Lillian chuckled. “It is good to see you again, Francis.”

“As it is to see you, Lillian,” Francis replied as a genuine smile breached onto his fair features. He straightened and offered her his hand. “Would you honour me with a dance?” he asked solemnly in a dead accurate imitation of Lionel's severe tone.

Lillian tried to stifle her laughter as best she could, quickly taking his hand to be in the mingling anonymity of the dancing crowd. “With you, always, Francis.”

Marietta peeked up for the briefest of instants. "When did you return from the war, my Lord?" she inquired softly as they danced. "If I may ask," she added hastily.

Lionel smiled at her awkward attempts at making conversation. "I returned this very morning," he answered as he drew her slightly closer. She did not seem to mind. A good sign. "It has been some years, and I had not quite realised how much I missed our beloved capital until I returned to its fair sights."

The blush that returned belatedly to her cheeks in the wake of his words was especially endearing. "Was it frightening?" she asked quietly as she stole another glance up at him. "The war I mean."

"A little, especially when the charge broke and we realised we had made a wrong," he answered, his smile growing ever fonder. He was glad she was still so very genuine. Today's world was a harsh place to live in and he had feared it might have mangled her gentle mind already. "It was in part my fault, I blindly followed Lord Cardigan's orders. I should have assessed the situation for myself."

"You are an officer?" she wondered, her green eyes growing noticeably larger as she briefly forgot that staring was not a polite thing to do, then hastily cast her gaze down once more and demurely added: "My Lord."

He could not help but be charmed by her adorable ways. "That I am."

"I apologise, my Lord. I do not know very much of the conflict or the military," she said shyly, fumbling her sentence a little. “You must be very good at making war.”

He smiled and his amusement set a sparkle to his brown eyes. "That does not quite sound like a compliment."

"I... it is, I mean, it was meant to be!" she blundered, going scarlet in embarrassment. She hoped she hadn't offended him! She hadn't meant to offend him. What if...?

"I know," he assured her as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

She averted her gaze and tried not to smile impolitely. He was so charming and interesting! She allowed herself to be swept away in the pleasantness of their dance as her thoughts wandered to those far lands he had been. She had heard of the hardship of the cavalry regiments; the many casualties both during the charge and afterwards as supplies grew scarce and men and horses alike starved.

"Pray tell me your valiant mount is still with us?" she asked then. She looked so sad at the mere notion, he did not think he would have had the heart to tell her even if Coşkun had not lived to tell the tale.

"He lost a little weight," he remarked with humour, hoping to lighten her mood. "But he's a resilient animal. He came out just fine and with a handsome scar to show for his courage to boot."

She smiled, clearly relieved. "I am glad, what is his name?"

"Coşkun."

A flinch of recognition pulled across her fair features. She glanced up at him, a little frown creasing her brow.

"Is something amiss?" he inquired gently as he span them around, wondering. Hoping? _Maybe._

"Oh no, no, I am quite all right, my Lord," she recovered and shook her head lightly as if to rid herself of a silly notion. "I thought I had known a horse by that name, but it must be a trick of the mind."

His smile faded at her words, sadness dimming it's joy. He wanted to tell her, but knew all to well what it sounded like. At her mildly distressed gaze, undoubtedly in response to his sudden shift of demeanour, he painted a smile back onto his features even though he no longer felt it. The dance would soon end. He wanted it to last. Knew he could make it so.

When the music ran to it's dramatic end, Lionel gallantly accompanied her off the dance floor. They were soon joined by Lillian and Francis, who were speaking in slightly hushed, amused tones, like a pair of whimsy society ladies. They abruptly halted their conversation when they saw them. Lionel pointedly ignored their meaningful smiles; he had a fair guess at what they were giggling about.

"Miss Silverglade," Lionel said as he bowed once more and lightly kissed Marietta's gloved knuckles. “It was an absolute joy to meet you.”

“It is I who is overjoyed, my Lord,” Marietta returned, a fresh blush returning to her fair cheeks.

"Good graces, Lionel, you are embarrassing her," Alistair remarked cheerfully as he came striding towards the four of them.

"Alistair, how good to see you," Lillian exclaimed heartily, covertly elbowing Lionel in the ribs before he could reply with anything but an amicable response.

"It has been too long," Lionel managed stiffly.

“Not long enough,” Alistair replied with a lopsided grin as his gaze flicked to Francis. “I am glad _all_ of you have come,” he added with his typical flair and a playful wink at Francis. “Especially you, Lillian,” he continued as he pressed a kiss to her gloved fingertips.

“They are your friends?” Marietta inquired, not averting her gaze from Lionel but not quite meeting his brown eyes either.

“Oh yes,” Alistair replied heartily as he turned to her. “We go _way_ back.”

An awful premonition stirred in Lillian's chest when Alistair put his arm around Marietta's corseted waist. Though to his credit, he kept her at a respectable distance from his side. Alarmed, she glanced sideways at Francis, who did not look back. He surreptitiously gave her hand a light, warning squeeze, and it dropped a ball of guilt into her stomach like a piece of granite. _Oh no_.

“Marietta, this is Lord Lionel Nevermoor, and his beautiful and intelligent sister Lady Lillian Nevermoor,” Alistair continued, blissfully unawares, with a dramatic flick of his free hand. “Lionel, Lillian, I am truly delighted to finally introduce the both of you to Marietta Silverglade – my fiancée.”

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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